Illusory
by belle rouge
Summary: Desperate for a job, a young woman answers an ad in the personals looking for a day-time secretary...only to find herself caught in a deliciously tangled web with her very dangerously attractive employer. Jerry/OC. DISCONTINUED.
1. prologue

AN: Let me know what you think. This is just the prologue. I'll post the first chapter later if anyone seems interested.

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><p>Illusory<br>by opaque mask

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><p><em>Prologue.<em>

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><p>It's often been said that dreams are a reflection of your fate. Kind of like looking into time's own mirror, seeing the image of your future self floating in a pool of water. There's the constantly shifting tides, the surface trembling with the weight of gravity and potential pushing down into it, and all of this comes to you while you sleep. It's still the same face peering down through the shallows and into the changeless undercurrent - only altered in ways you cannot yet imagine.<p>

This is merely a theory - an _according to some _original.

Let me give you some advice - don't believe everything you hear because a lot of it (if you want the whole truth) can't live up to its own rationale. People say a lot of things. It doesn't mean they're all true. That crazy old man with whiskers growing out of ears who sits in the back of the bus screaming over the end of the world for the last twenty years – he sure says a lot. But everything is thrown out of your head the second you step off that bus because you know it's all bullshit, right?

I've learned, over time, that as far as animals go (because it can't be denied that we aren't animals) - we are a voluble species. We know how to disarm logic and turn it into meaningless, colorful oration; we are lovers of words and speakers for infant greatness struggling to fit into its first bloom. But it's the _proof _I'm looking for – that we're _all _looking for. And for most people, well…proof is something they're clean out of.

Dreams, to me, are just _dreams. _ It's still the same person you've always been - and always will be - staring into the abyss of unconscious reflection. Vain details. Insignificant moving pictures that a restless mind makes up to pass the time. Sure, there's hidden meanings – aren't there in all things concerning life? But in the end we forget them. Because they don't _matter._

Deliberations of the imaginary, of a brain at rest, can't change the course of your own future. _You_ control that.

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><p>It began, one night, when a storm tore open a sky black with swollen heavy clouds.<p>

And all across the desert, terrible pelting rain bled into the melting sand.

I shot up sometime between three and four, eyes wide and glazed with fear.

With a cold dripping sweat clinging to my skin and fusing me to the tangled sheets,

a scream tearing through my parched throat, drowned out by the sound of rolling thunder.

I'd wondered if dreams really could be more than illusions of the night, of a pale shade reflection of our waking moments.

_His hands are stained black by the conspiring fingers of night. Outside, it must be dusk, the world's color draining, sinking into a formless star-dusted gray. He is cold, pressed up against my skin, propped over the raised flesh that recoils away from his slinking beast-like form. I can feel him breathing. Like the infecting calm that plagues the frozen air before a winter storm. But maybe that's just it – it isn't him radiating all that cold. Maybe it's me – the paralyzing ice fear seeping out of my pores._

_The voice, now. Not human. Maybe the hollow ash-riddled voice of a demon. Snake-like, it slithers into my ear, urges me forward into the overgrowth of gloom shrouding the hall. Further into the peeling twilight I go. He leads me there, his sharp teeth grazing my neck, the muscles failing me and straining back to let him closer in. _

_And I can feel him, all of him, his body of pale ice marble and his cruel demon's leer pinned against my bare throat._

_Two words are all I remember before the black receding void swallows me whole._

"_All mine."_

They're really only dreams...

Aren't they?


	2. chapter one

__AN: Sorry it took so long! I've been super busy. But here it is. Hopefully I can update again soon. 3

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><p>Illusory<br>by opaque mask

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><p><em>Chapter One.<em>

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><p><em>Vivienne, where are you?<em>

_I've been so worried since you left._

_You won't answer my calls._

_It's been a week._

_Look, I know you're angry. I understand – I was wrong._

_And I'm so sorry._

_But please, sweetheart._

_I'm afraid for you…afraid of what might happen out there, with you all alone like that._

_There's no one to protect you._

_Please._

_Come home._

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><p>Standing here, in the middle of the blazing street, I can almost leave everything to imagination. And imagination remembers nothing about the torrid desert outside this little concrete paradise. It's all but forgotten here - the stale and desolate gold landscape stretching out on all sides like a great sandy cat beyond the safety of these suburban borders. The cookie cutter houses, standing proud and straight before their white glowing sidewalks, blot everything else out. And around them, life is teeming. It grows and expands and puts out its feelers as if to find more room. Grow more, spread out more. The prowling wilderness – watching, waiting – seems far and away within this suburban oasis.<p>

Kids run through prickly stubs of grass, bleached and barely green anymore. They leap through sprinklers, faces alight with joy and skin glowing red with fresh sunburn. Down the walks, a few straggling stay at home moms brave the heat. They meet somewhere in the middle, stopping to pick apart the latest pieces of gossip with one another. Everything seems picturesque, quiet and comfortable, like a lost Norman Rockwell painting.

I take it all in as I wait. It's a relief to stand beneath the shade of the porch after being cooked in the sun. You'd think it'd start to cool off, with dusk fast approaching. If you look over to the east, the horizon has just begun to turn a smoky, bluish-gray. To the west, you can see the sun sinking down into a puddle of soft reddish-gold light somewhere behind the towering mountain range, out there across that burning gold-washed void. But you'd be thinking wrong – it's still hot as hell. Even with the sky riddled with the ashes of sunset. I guess that's to be expected of Vegas. It is, after all, a desert. Nothing I can't get used to. The human body, and all its attachments, is a marvel in that respect – it can accustom itself to anything if necessity calls for it.

The lock clicks, the door slides back a little. One dark eye peers out from behind the frame, which I now just notice smells strongly of fresh paint. I can only assume this to be my interviewer.

He looks out at me, a flicker of a smile snagging on the corner of his mouth. It's almost as if he's laughing softly to himself and I'm not supposed to know about it. In all fairness, I can't blame him. I must be quite a sight with my fading sunburn beginning to peel away and the weary traveler's look still hanging on me like an old, unshed skin. I'm still so tired; everything is changing and there's nothing familiar to hold onto in the midst of it all, but it can't be helped. I have to be able to afford the hotel room I'm crashing in. Food, shelter, some clothes would be nice.

Finding a job comes first. I can sleep when I'm dead.

"Can I help you?"

Good lord, his _voice_. What – what is it? Can it even be real? It sounds like bruised velvet whispering to me from behind the shield of the door, smoldering gently in the afterglow of the failing light. Soft, hushed as it falls across the unsuspecting senses, but there's a hardness to its timber that I can't exactly name. A strange undercurrent. Who actually sounds like that? Prince Charming? Casanova? Perhaps this guy is some long lost lovechild of Fabio. But no - not quite. It's too…well, too – too what?

Too _sinister_.

I try to look unfazed by my epiphany, reminding myself again why I'm here. "Yes, um – _hi_." I pause, but only for a moment. "I called about an hour ago about your ad. You said anytime after sunset would be fine."

In the meantime, while my brain picks apart the trivial details, my hands work to unfold a scrap of newspaper. I'm suddenly aware of how hot it is outside. Perhaps because the cool air has just begun to slither out onto the porch, sliding over my skin much like his voice had when I first heard it. Or maybe – and I think this just might be the case – it's because I can feel him watching me so closely, my every move calculated and scrutinized and measured. The same muted roughness in his voice was there blinking at me from behind veiled, inscrutably dark eyes.

After one achingly long moment, in which I torture myself with trying to prove my intentions (why did I have to fold the damn paper so many times?), he stops me by sweeping those white gleaming fingertips across my knuckles. The touch lingers, for just a split second, but it _stings. _It feels like he's brushed a thin sheen of acid over my skin. And cold – cold as snow. As ice.

He flashes me a toothy grin and a laugh that almost sounds too steely to be genuine. Finally his hand falls away and the goose bumps fade. "You don't need that, trust me," he says, opening the door a little wider. "I recognize your voice. Come on in and we'll talk business."

It's almost funny, the thought that flits through the forefront of my mind at that moment. I stifle a laugh as he stands back, the door fully open now, and his arm outstretches toward the sparsely decorated living room. Still, it's there, the devilish little thought – _why, it's as if Dracula is welcoming me into his lair._

Yes, of course – Dracula! In Vegas, of all places. Where castles have casinos lodged in their underbellies and the brightly lit city has no room for the slinking shadow of superstition. Oh dear, I _have _let my imagination get the best of me. This fella, whatever his name is, may look the tough guy (with his bulging arms and slicked back raven hair), but in all probability – he wouldn't hurt a fly.

We both walk in at about the same pace, my own cautious tiptoeing a sharp contrast to his full-bodied swagger. It's quite a place he has here – though nothing I'd call homey and inviting. There's one lounge chair, complete with matching ottoman, placed at an angle toward the television set - a nondescript piece of furniture. The windows are blacked out with strips of pasted on newspaper while the walls, gently humming with the reverberating drone of the refrigerator nearby, are blank and unassuming. A wide staircase greets you as you step inside and, if you veer off to the left, a small kitchen boasts little more than sea-foam backsplash tile and a small cluster of green apples resting upon a corian countertop.

In his defense, it looks as if he's just moved in. A few unpacked boxes remain untouched and backed into various corners of the house. There's one on the dining table that looks as if it's just been torn open, practically gutted in fact, with its contents littering the surface of the table - beer cans. Budweisers, if I'm seeing them right. The lighting in here is dim at best and I can hardly see two feet in front of me, much less a label on a beer can.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" He asks casually, his boots still thudding dully against the floor. "Anything that you're particularly _dying _for?"

With a cheeky smile, he almost purrs the last part. Like I've said before – _good lord._

"No thanks, I'm not all that thirsty."

He reaches the kitchen and proceeds to lean his long, slender frame back against the countertop. From here, where I'm standing awkwardly at the outer edge of the dining room, I can see the outline of his body beneath the only good light in the house (at least, the only one that seems to have been turned on). He's rather tall, I can see that from here, and there's not one trace of fat threading through that glorious figure of bone and sinew. Jutting hipbones, broad sloping shoulders, and a smooth soft belly disappearing into the hem of his black jeans. And just as it seems that nothing else in the world in that moment could make him more tantalizing, he sighs and throws his head back a little – exposing the soft inviting flesh of his neck as it pours down into an angular collarbone. I could just die, right here and right now, looking at what seems to be a godlike figure carved out of pure, magnificent marble.

It's all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor and making a complete fool of myself in front of a prospective employer. But if only he'd _try _to make himself less appealing…

He then squints at something in the ceiling, slowly raising a hand and pointing at that same offensive spot. "Hmm," he says, almost to himself. Has he forgotten that I'm even here? "Looks like that could use a little more spackle…"

I glance quickly at the object of his attention – it seems there is a small patch in the ceiling where it's become indented, an old, badly covered up hole perhaps, and certainly in need of a little spackle.

He then clears his throat, getting up from his enticing position. "I apologize," he offers graciously, plucking an apple from the small green cluster. "I've only just moved in. There's a lot to do, a lot to fix up…" he points to the ceiling once again, a smirk firmly planted on his face. "I find little faults like that often."

"Understandable," I tell him.

Vaguely, as he buffs away a spot on his apple, he says, "you're here for a job."

"Yes. I have no resume, but -"

"I don't need a resume_._" He bites leisurely into the lustrous green flesh. All the while, the delicious little smirk is still intact.

I could almost scream.

Instead I ask bumbling questions...questions that sound stupid even to my own ears.

"Don't you need to know my name?"

"Not particularly, no."

For a long moment I consider this. So - no names, no resumes. It's one of _those _jobs then. _No problem._

"So what exactly is the job?"

"An easy one. You can very well see that I've ah – got my hands full with this." The hand with the half-eaten fruit in it falls to his side. "On top of that I've got work on the strip at night, sleep during the day. Everything else tends to get out of hand again the moment I think I've reigned it all back in."

His eyes fall on me and I can feel the weight of them, heavy and almost terrible in their severity. Once more, I'm reminded of how truly tired I am.

I almost don't hear him approach, trapped in a drowsy haze. Looking up, awakening as if from a dream, I find him towering over me. I can't deny being unnerved by the suddenness and the closeness and the sharp, come hither lure of cologne radiating from his body – but the instinct to move back isn't there. I stand still. I let him invade my space. It's almost as if he's willing me closer, stripping me of my most basic instincts. How is he doing that?

"I need someone who can manage my affairs during the day. You know, the usual – push papers, handle the occasional knock at the door, take care of little odds and ends that I need done." He pushes a lock of hair from my face, effortlessly tucking it behind my ear. At first I recoil, but then I lean into the graze of his skin. "This someone, whoever they might be, has to be honest in their work and well, – smart enough to want to avoid the consequences of even the slightest _hint_ of betrayal."

"I can be that someone." I assure him dazedly.

"Oh, but I know you can."

_God, _he's so close -

_Wake up, doofus – this is a job interview, not a cozy social call._

I realize what I'm doing and back away, finally. He's smirking again. _Damn _that smirk.

I do need a job, any job, but if the man thinks I'm some sort of plaything then he's got the wrong idea. Sure, he's handsome and has the body of a thoroughbred stallion, but I'm not about to gamble my livelihood on a potential sexual harassment case. Not after everything I've gone through to get here. Boundaries – we need boundaries. Even if he is, unmistakably, Himeros draped in his human skins.

Feeling woozy all of the sudden, I take a step backward. I feel a little better already being out of close proximity with the godlike creature. "You know what?" I press my palm to my forehead, focusing on the wonderfully stable, unmoving floor. "I think I could actually use a glass of water."

His smooth voice finds me. "You feeling all right?"

"Fine, just fine," I tell him, taking another step back, and another. "Just…just woozy from the heat is all. Would it be all right…?"

We meet eyes for a moment. I think he'd been waiting for me to look at him again. "Sit down…I won't be long."

He nods toward the dining chairs and we go our separate ways. As I sit, I can hear his heavy boots against the linoleum, the floorboards squeaking beneath his weight. Perhaps it wouldn't all be that strange if not for the sudden faintness. I've always lost my head over men, a little fault of mine I'm working on fixing. In fact I've lost a good deal on account of my weakness for them (virginity, good grades, money…to name a few). But never have I reacted so strangely, so strongly, to one that I've only just met. It might just be that he's Himeros incarnate and the pimple-faced, gangly boys in my past life back home just don't compare.

Or it might be that – no, no. Couldn't be that.

He's not _dangerous. _A little clueless about personal space and the issue of boundaries, but those big dark eyes reflect no half-crazed traces of bloodlust in them. If anything they are so vast and inviting that I could crawl into them and wander for a while in their warm wet blackness (see if they feel anything like hot open-mouthed kisses in the moonlight). But mass-murderer? Cannibalistic psycho who wears his victims' skins like the latest Paris fashions? No, no, no. Not him.

There he is again – leaning against the back of the chair, alluring as ever, and I think he knows it too. He places a half-full glass of water in front me and I take it gratefully with a small, squeaky _thank you _pushing its way out from behind my slack lips. They're chapped. Dehydrated. God, I've never been so thirsty in my life.

He's silent until I've drained the glass completely. Watching me. Waiting again.

I clear my throat and prepare to meet his eyes. _Focus. Keep on your toes. This isn't a social call. This is business. Remember why you're here._

"It sounds like I'm your girl," I say. "Just tell me when to show up and I'll be here."

He's all seriousness now – the smirk has all but disappeared. "Tomorrow, seven in the morning," he replies. "Call me Jerry."


End file.
